Late at night, when all others are asleep, he wanders the neglected hallways of his psyche, stepping over trash, peeling wallpaper off his soul, squinting up at shadows under the bare bulb of what might have been.
There is no cure for spiritual insomnia.
He can only wear each tragic emotion like a penitent’s hairshirt, sensing each scratch, each irritation, allowing the pain to act as an escort throughout the night.
And in the morning, the glorious morning, when life holds out the promise of yet another chance, he will round up all the demons of the dark and weld them into a structure of iconic anguish.
People happily pay what he asks for each tortured sculpture, never understanding the intangible price.